


Pregame Routine

by inlovewithnight



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, before game five, love your goalie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 21:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14941877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: Tom's going to take care of Holts, going into game five.





	Pregame Routine

Somebody’s gotta take care of Holts.

They’re all tired, they’re all hurt—guys are held together with spit and tape and injections of, like, pure ketamine or something, Tom isn’t totally sure—but everybody knows the goalies need special care. They always do. It’s a basic truth of hockey that goalies are different, with their own stuff going on, and that doesn’t change in the playoffs.

Tom’s been watching Holts since round one, ever since he took the starting spot back from Gruby. He’s been stoic as ever, going through his routines and taking care of his business and being a wall in the net. He’s playing great.

But he’s burning down to nothing, the cycle of games wearing him down just like the rest of them. Not with his limbs taped on like some of the guys, not bags of ice taped all up and down his body before during after the game, just—burning down. All sinew and bone and exhaustion, going thin around the edges like the light might start showing through him.

Tom’s on the case. He’s not going to let their goalie just fall apart.

He walks behind Holts from the plane to the bus, sits in the seat behind him, walks behind him again from the bus to the hotel elevator. He stares at Holts’ reflection in the mirror-shiny walls of the elevator until Holts turns his head and gives him a patient, puzzled look, then turns his gaze up to the ceiling for the rest of the ride. It’s fine. He’s got this.

“Why are you following me?” Holts asks when the elevator door comes to a stop at their floor.

“I’m not! I’m on this floor too, dude, we all are.”

Holts shakes his head slowly, like it’s super-heavy. He moves like that all over, actually, except when he’s on the ice—like his body weighs a million pounds. “Go take a nap, Willy.”

“You go take a nap.”

“I’m going to.” They both step off the elevator and Tom scrambles in his head for the next thing he should say, some way to get the conversation out of the corner he accidentally steered it into.

“That’s good. Uh. You and Gruby hanging out later?”

Holts stops and looks at him again, that same way, like Tom is pleasant but confusing and also he doesn’t have time for this right now. “Probably not? Why?”

Tom shrugs. “Maybe you and me can hang out.”

“Willy.” Holts is doing the thing where he enunciates really hard, shaping every word like he’s cutting it out of rock. “I am extremely tired. I don’t think I want to hang out with anybody.”

“I don’t mean _hang out_ hang out. I mean, like.” He doesn’t know what he means. “Look, you need somebody to take care of you, okay? I’m volunteering.”

“Take care of me?” Holts shakes his head. “What?”

“Well, you obviously can’t take care of yourself. Look at you.”

Holts follows Tom’s gesture with his eyes, tracking it up and down his own body. “I’m fine.”

“You’re definitely not.” This is going to take drastic measures. “Here, just let me—look, we were both going to go take a nap, right? Let’s just do that together. I’ll come with you.”

They just look at each other for a minute, and Tom isn’t sure if he should be getting combative or not, because Holts isn’t saying yes but he isn’t saying no, either, and he’s not glaring, he’s looking at Tom with this, like… fondness, and that’s… well, he doesn’t know what to do with it exactly, that’s all.

“You want to nap with me,” Holts says finally. “Um. Well… yeah, okay.”

“You’re serious, right?” Tom’s never really had to work on an intimidating face, because usually he can just—be intimidating, square his shoulders and tuck his chin and loom, kinda, leaning over the other guy on his skates. That doesn’t work in dress shoes in a hotel hallway.

“I am if you are.” One eyebrow goes up, Holts’ dumb cool eyebrows that he can lift one at a time like that. “Were you serious?”

“Yeah, sure!” Here’s where he can square his shoulders, adjust the strap of his bag over his arm, look extra-serious. Nobody’s bluffing here. “Let’s go.”

Holts shrugs and turns around, setting off down the hall again, and Tom follows him, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, gripping his key card tight enough in his pocket that it hurts across the inside of his knuckles.

All hotel rooms are the same, everywhere, and Holts only gives his a cursory glance before he throws his bag onto one of the armchairs and takes off his suit jacket. It goes over the back of the chair, followed by tie, shirt, shoes, trousers. He flops face-down, spread-eagled on top of the blankets, boxers a bright purple splash of color against the relentlessly neutral color scheme.

Tom is still standing at the door, bag over his shoulder. He catches himself and goes through the same routine, discarding his bag and stripping his clothes off before making his way to the bed. He can’t just throw himself down, Holtz is in the way, so he stands there for a minute, just looking down at him.

“Don’t stare at me, Willy.” Holtz’s voice is muffled against the coverlet and the pillows.

“You gotta move over so I can lie down.” Tom nudges his knuckles against Holtz’s ribs, poking him a couple of times until he grunts and brings his limbs in to only take up half the bed.

“Do you need to be spooned?” Holtz asks, not turning his face, so he’s just reciting the words into the fabric. Tom makes a face at him and stretches out on his back, careful not to crowd him. He stares at the ceiling for a minute before he answers.

“No.”

“Good.” Holtz sighs and drags himself up to his knees. “But get up again, I want to be under the blankets, actually.”

Tom has to laugh. “Didn’t plan this too good, eh?”

“Well, you don’t have to be here, you know.” He’s smiling a little, though, as he pulls the blankets and sheets back, loosening them up enough to get in under them. “I’ll ask you again. Why are you here?”

Tom shrugs. “Same thing I told you before. You need somebody to look after you.”

Holts’ brow furrows, his eyes still fixed on the sheets. “Where did you get that idea?”

“You’re tired. You’re stressed out.”

“It’s the playoffs.” He climbs back into the bed on his back this time, pulling the sheets up to his chin. “Everybody’s tired and stressed out.”

“Well, yeah.” Tom climbs in, too, trying to keep the sheets pushed down around his waist without pulling them away from Holts. He doesn’t like being cocooned and crowded. “But you’re our goalie, man. You’re the guy. Gotta keep you relaxed and calm and happy.”

Holts’ forehead is still furrowed, like what Tom’s saying doesn’t make much sense and he has to think about it, but what is there to think about? Tom’s being perfectly clear. “I’ve got my routine,” Holts says finally. “I know how to get game-ready.”

“I know! I know you do. Just.” God, this is frustrating. “I know this is _bigger_ than other games. And maybe you need some help?”

“Don’t you need to be concentrating on your own shit?”

Tom shakes his head. “If I just sit and think about myself, I’ll stress myself out. Helping a buddy out is way better.”

That earns a snort of laughter. “Dude.”

“Hey!” Tom laughs despite himself.

“That’s one way to help someone relax, I suppose.” Holts turns his face up the ceiling and closes his eyes, taking a slow, deep breath that makes the sheets rise and fall in a gentle wave. Tom grips the edge of the sheet between his fingers, anchoring it.

“Would it for you?” he asks.

Holts goes still, the sheet unmoving, his lips parted a little, teeth showing in a little white line through his beard. “What?”

“Would it help you relax?” Tom forgets about anchoring and twists the sheet between his fingers, wraps it around his thumb, tugs at it restlessly until it slips down Holts’ chest.

Slow, careful words. “Would what help me relax?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Tom sighs and turns on his side to face Holts, who still stubbornly has his eyes closed like he’s _praying_ or something instead of having what should be a much simpler conversation. “Would it help you relax if I helped you out?”

Holts takes a deep breath, lets it go, does it again. “We are in the middle of the biggest series of our lives,” he says, in this calm way that makes the hair on Tom’s arms want to stand on end. “And you’re making me decode whether you’re talking about handjobs.”

“I was thinking more like blowjobs, to be honest.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I’m trying to help you!” Tom sits up and grabs at Holts’ hands. “Look at me, dude! Come on. I’m trying to help you relax and take the edge of so you’ll be ready for tonight! So you can bring your best.”

Holts glares up at him. “I will bring my best with or without you.”

“Yeah, I know, but your best _with_ me will be better than your best without me.”

“How do you figure?”

Somehow Tom did not prepare an answer for that. Shit. “I just know, okay? I can feel it.”

“Oh, well, if you can _feel_ it.” Holts snorts and shakes his head. “That changes everything.”

“This is a very generous one-time offer. You shouldn’t be rude about it.”

Holts twists his arms, trying to get his hands away, but Tom holds on tight, gambling that Holts won’t risk hurting himself any more than Tom will risk hurting him. He knows exactly how strong he is, exactly when he’ll need to give way. Holts doesn’t, so he’ll give way first. It’s just math.

Sure enough. “ _Jesus_ ,” Holts groans in frustration, flopping back against the pillows. “You are something else, Willy.”

“So you’re down for it?”

“This is changing things up in the middle of the series. Adding something new into the routine.”

Tom shrugs. “Not really. You’re supposed to relax. This’ll help you relax.”

“I’m definitely not relaxed right now.”

“That’s why you need it!”

Holts exhales through his nose and closes his eyes tight, and for the first time Tom starts to feel a little worried. This might be one of those things—like, he never means to do it, but sometimes he gets really _fixed_ on a thing and he concentrates too hard on it and misses all the signals to knock it off, and he pushes too hard and fucks things up. Shit.

“I mean.” He lets go of Holts’ hands and pulls back. “You want me to leave, just tell me, you know? I’ll leave if you tell me.”

“I know you will.” Holts’ eyes are still closed, his jaw tight, but his voice is softer. Tom’s pretty sure he gets it, he caught the shift of the vibe in the room. “I’m just processing this.”

“I seriously just want to help.” He slips his hands under his thighs, tucking them out of the way so he won’t touch Holts again before he’s ready, won’t risk him not wanting to be touched. “If it’s more trouble than it’s worth, then okay, whatever, I’ll go. Grab a nap or get food or something.”

“Quiet for a minute.”

“I’m serious, Holts, just tell me if you want me to go and I’ll—”

“Be _quiet_ for a minute.” Holts lifts his chin a little, the light hitting his face in this way that makes it all planes and angles, and it’s just, it’s really beautiful, against the stark white pillowcases. It makes Tom feel weird, it’s so beautiful. His stomach tightens up and twists around. He wants to look at Holts like this forever.

Holts exhales again, slowly, and opens his eyes, looking at Tom in this serious, considering way that immediately makes him forget all about the stark planes and angles, because his sharp, serious eyes are a million times more beautiful, and captivating, and they chase everything right out of Tom’s head and leave him empty. Still with his stomach twisting up, though. His body is going to stay attuned, whatever his brain does, apparently.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” Holts asks, still holding Tom’s gaze with his own. “You want to help me out, Willy? You want to be good for me?”

Fuck. His stomach goes hot and even tighter, a twisted-up glowy knot that sinks down and settles between his hips, right in the activation zone for his dick. “Yeah,” he says, his voice thick in his throat. “Yeah, I do. Anything for you, Holts.”

“Okay.” He takes a breath and sits up, pushing the blankets off so Tom can get to him. “Let’s see you be good.”

Tom’s gonna be so fucking good, good like Holts has never seen. He palms Holts’ dick through those dumb purple boxers, mapping out the size and shape of it. “This is like an eggplant emoji,” he says, getting his palm fit right to the curve through the thin fabric. “Look at it.”

Holts laughs, low and warm in a way that sends hot shivers through Tom’s whole body. He wants to hear that again, and feel that again, so he rubs at Holts’ dick some more and grins up at him. “You’re fucking hung, dude.”

“We share a locker room. You knew that already.” Holts’ hand settles on Tom’s skull, petting a little and guiding him closer. “There’s nothing new here.”

“Kinda new.” Tom keeps touching, fondling Holts through his boxers, feeling him start to get hard against his palm. It’s a fun kind of game, making himself wait to really see it. He can test himself a little—not _too_ much, that would suck, but a little bit. “I never got to touch it before.”

“You never asked.” Holts squeezes the back of his head lightly, warm solid pressure of his palm. Tom wants to push back into it, wants him to push down harder, wants—he just wants, that’s all, he wants everything, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to ask. This is supposed to be about helping Holts, not him getting extra stuff he wants.

“We’ve never been in the Final before,” he says, instead of asking, and leans down to lick the length of thick heavy flesh through the fabric. It doesn’t taste great, which he probably should’ve predicted, but the feel of it against his lips and tongue builds out that map he made in his head, adds to the anticipation of taking it in his mouth and sucking on it for real.

“Touching dick is for conference champs.” Holts laughs again, and yeah, it’s still good, Tom still loves that, so he moves down to where the head of Holts’ cock is making the fabric thin with wet, and sucks at that spot. That makes Holts’ hips jerk up, and his hand press down against Tom’s skull, and _fuck_ , that’s just as perfect as he thought it was gonna be. He’s done waiting now. He needs this for real.

He curls his fingers in the waistband of the boxers and yanks them down Holts’ thighs, baring pale skin and red-brown curls and a dick that yeah, he’s seen before, but not like this. Not hard and flushed red and wet at the head because he’s been playing with it.

He tries to push Holts’ thighs apart, to make some space for himself to get in there, but the boxers are in the way. So he has to get those all the way off, with Holts almost kneeing him in the head, and once he’s thrown them aside he looks up and finds that Holts has his dick in his hand now, stroking tight and slow. That sight hits something in the back of Tom’s head that shuts his brain off entirely, so that all he can do is stare for a minute. 

“Hey,” Holts says softly. “Thought you were gonna be good, eh?”

“Yeah! Yes. I am. Just.” He shakes his head and laughs a little. “Not sure where to start.”

“I bet you can figure it out.” Holts shifts more comfortably back against the pillows, opening his thighs wider, and yeah, Tom can work with this. He can plan a route up the bed, between Holts’ legs, and bury his face against the rough hair that traces down from navel to crotch.

Now its Holts’ turn to laugh. “What are you doing?”

Tom’s just breathing him in, and instead of answering, he does it more, drawing in deep sniffs that almost make him choke. Holts smells so good, sweat and hair and skin mixing together into that single smell that makes up a person, under whatever cologne they’re wearing or the detergent in their clothes, or whatever. He could pick Holts out of a crowd blindfolded now, just sniffing for him. That’s weird, and he isn’t going to say it out loud, but it’s true. 

“Hey.” Little pats at his head. “Hey, are you lost?”

Tom shakes his head and opens his mouth, letting his teeth drag against the soft skin and coarse hair at the base of Holts’ cock. The hair gets caught in his teeth, tickling his tongue and almost making him gag, but he fights it back, and the way it makes Holts shudder and his breath catch are worth it. He wants that reaction. He wants _more_ than that reaction.

It hasn’t been that long since he’s sucked a dick—summer, Latts, wistful, probably a bad idea, kinda drunk, on the deck at the cabin, mosquito bites on the back of his neck where Latts got his fingers tangled in Tom’s hair and pulled, baring the skin—but he still takes a minute to center himself, slow down, get to know the territory. Another deep sniff, a careful lick or two, all while looking up as best he can to see how Holts reacts to it.

His eyelashes are fluttering and he’s sunk his front teeth deep into his lower lip. Tom’s sucked enough dick to know those are good signs. 

“Ready?” he asks, not to be a jerk but because he’s not teasing, here, he’s trying to be good, to make it all really good for Holts. Because Holts is his goalie, and his teammate, and his friend, and you make it good for people you care about—but also something bigger than that. When he told Holts he wanted to be good for him and Holts accepted that, then turned it around and made it like a challenge for Tom to live up to…

Well, he really, really doesn’t want to mess this up. Messing up would be like ripping something out of his chest and throwing it away, something he doesn’t know the words for. Not his heart but something close to it.

Holts takes a deep breath and nods, brushing Tom’s hair back off his forehead. “Yeah, I’m ready. You’re amazing. Doing so good.”

That makes the thing in his chest light up, just fucking glow, and Tom lowers his head and takes Holts’ dick in his mouth, thick and warm and needing all of his attention. Holts feels _good_ in his mouth, and from the groan that comes over his head from up by the pillows, his mouth feels good on Holts. He’s still doing good. Better keep going.

It’s been a while but apparently this isn’t the kind of thing that he forgets. He chokes a little and has to ease back, but once the head isn’t bumping the back of his throat he can take care of business, sucking and drooling and keeping things sloppy-wet around Holts’ cock. Fingers tense and tighten on the back of his head, pushing him down more firmly and keeping him in place, and that’s perfect, that’s exactly what Tom wants. If he has a couple more minutes to find his rhythm, he should even be able to take Holts deep again. Make it _really_ good for him. 

It’s like Holts can tell what he’s thinking. “Don’t get too creative, babe. You don’t want to blow my mind, you want me to relax, right? That was the idea.”

Yeah, that’s right. Good thing Holts is smart and paying attention and remembering things or Tom would end up somewhere way off in left field. He’s trying to suck Holts’ tension and worries out through his dick, not his whole brain. 

That means he can speed things up a little, using his tongue more and bobbing his head in a rhythm, taking Holts good and deep and then pulling back up, grabbing a breath and sliding back down, keep up the pressure and heat and make it good and slick, scrape the edge of his teeth against the head just a _little_ bit, just enough that Holts shudders and jerks in surprise. 

Holts’ hand is still on his head, fingers digging in enough to hurt against his scalp, some strands of hair twisted in them so that pulls and stings. Holts is talking, too; well, muttering and half-swallowing words and swearing every time his hips thrust up and Tom gags around him. It stretches the corners of Tom’s mouth and bruises his throat and all the little pieces of pain add up to this awesome feeling like he’s got a bubble of heat emanating from his skin. Like he’s a dick-sucking superhero. Why doesn’t he do this more often? He should do this all the time.

“Wait,” Holts gasps. “Ah, fuck—wait—”

Tom goes still, not sure if that means _stop_ or _pull back_ , but then Holts is spilling in his mouth and it doesn’t matter anyway, the whole question’s moot. Tom does his best to swallow, but in his surprise he chokes a little, and it all comes spilling out of his mouth and down his chin, leaving his face and Holts’ thigh a mess, followed by the edge of the bedsheet when Holts uses it to wipe them both clean.

“Sorry about that.” Holts is still flushed red and sweaty, kind of wild-eyed, but he studies Tom’s face carefully and wipes the corner of his mouth again before he drops the sheet and runs both hands over Tom’s hair. “That was awesome.”

Tom smiles, rolling his tongue around his mouth to kind of revel in how hot and puffy and weird it feels. “Did good?” 

“Did very good.” Holts pets him double-handed again, then pulls him up the bed to the pillows. “You need something?”

Tom shakes his head, turning on his stomach to press his half-hard dick into the mattress. “Want to save it til after the game, I think. I feel good right now.”

“Mm. Okay. Come find me after.” Holts is already half-asleep, the words slurred. Tom smiles to himself and closes his eyes, then takes a few slow deep breaths. They’re both lifetime expert afternoon nappers. It only takes a minute to be out cold.

**

After the game is pure chaos, cheering and singing and laughter and booze flowing everywhere and a new center of gravity that they all orbit around—a big, shiny silver one. The guys from the Hall in their white gloves stand back with tolerant smiles while the Cup starts its round of getting felt up, filled up, spilled on, kissed, humped, whatever else they can think to do to it. Tom’s hard as a rock but they all are, adrenaline and euphoria going through their veins like Viagra mixed with meth.

He remembers Holts’ promise, but he’s not going to hold him to it. How can he? They can’t sneak away from this just the two of them. There _is_ no just the two of them right now, no individual people at all, just the whole team with the Cup at the center. He’s floating out of his body in a big cloud of his boys. They’re all connected.

Holts finds him anyway, when they’re all pulling themselves together enough to leave the locker room and head for the Strip. Destinations are being yelled out at random and Tom has no idea which one is being settled on; they’ll all just follow Ovi anyway, like they always do.

“Hey,” Holts says, tugging him back out of the crowd. 

“Hey.” Tom grins at him, grabs him by the shoulders, shakes him a little. “We did it.”

“Fuck yeah we did!” Holts pulls him into a real hug, warm and full-body and good. “I think maybe I’ve gotta add that to my routine.”

That warm glow in Tom’s chest starts up again. With how happy he feels about _everything_ right now, he feels like it’s filling up his whole body and maybe he’s going to explode with it. “Any time you want, dude. I am here for you.”

“I know you are.” The room still isn’t quite empty; the building staff aren’t going to leave them here alone, and they have to catch the bus with everybody else. But they can steal another minute. “I owe you from earlier, and I think I owe you a couple more for being so good and figuring out what I needed for the whole game.”

“I’ll take everything you’ve got,” Tom says. He means for it to sound cocky, or like a challenge, but it kind of comes out like he’s begging for it. 

It makes Holts grin at him, wide and promising and with anticipation in his eyes. “Find me later,” he says. “And again when we get back to DC. And a couple more times after that. Every time you find me, I’ll owe you one.”

Tom can’t look away, just nods, trying to will himself not to just come in his pants right here on the spot. Not yet. There’s a whole night left.

Holts grins again and lets go of him, then thanks the staff for their time and walks out of the room. Tom takes another breath or two before he follows, wishing he had his next beer already just for the distraction.

They just won the Cup and it’s already game on all over again.


End file.
